


Amazingly, You're Not Dead Yet

by f0rt1ss1m0



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, Gen, HS Ancestor Night, Oneshot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f0rt1ss1m0/pseuds/f0rt1ss1m0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for toastyhat's Ancestor Night from a suggested prompt: "the Summoner getting lost in Celtic/Norse earth". This is...weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazingly, You're Not Dead Yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplickedyHat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/gifts).



You are lying facedown in a pile of hay and you’re not sure why. Or, as a matter of fact, where. Where meaning where you are. Or how you got here. Wherever “here” is.

Where _are_ you?

You open your eyes and examine your surroundings. It appears to be some sort of lusii shelter, but it’s empty and a little broken down. There’s old hay everywhere, all around the floor, in your hair, inside your clothes, hay in places hay should never be — a lot of it wet and moldy. Gross. White moonlight streams through the widely-spaced slats in the walls — 

…Wait.

It’s when you stand up and climb out of the window of the shelter that you realize something is radically wrong with this place. For one, there is ONE moon instead of two, and it is very small and very much white. The constellations are all wrong. In the distance is what seems like a small town but there’s no light coming from it, nothing to guide you by the dirt path between fields of some alien plant that you don’t recognize.

So you take to the skies. Not much more luck with that. It’s just fields, small silent hives here and there, shelters and fields and that little town as far as the eye can see. A little unsettled, you touch down a quarter mile from the town and hide your wings under your coat. Only customary to easily-alarmed small town people who might not have heard of you, much less aliens of whatever kinds these might be. And you enter.

To your surprise the town, composed mainly of small thatched-roof hives, is all but deserted. No trolls, no aliens, barely even an animal in sight. A few squealing hambeasts in a stall. An alarmed woofbeast over there, frightened by your presence until you reassure him you are a friend. A small pouch of clinking coins on the ground, which you take in your hand. But not another soul.

Oh, except for that soft pink-looking hornless troll gaping at you from a window.

To your surprise, it lets out a shriek when it sees you and dashes deeper into its hive before you can say anything. A little light, like a candle, is lit; you hear cries of, “Devil? Devil where?!” and flinch. Whoops. Better keep walking. For once you start to really wish you had that obnoxious blueblood recruit with you…she’s good with people.

Aha! You see a low, shaky building at the end of the road with a dim light on in the windows. It smells of fermenting sopor — a tavern. Admittedly it takes a few tries to get through the very low, very narrow door but eventually you manage it. “Hello,” you say to the awestruck bartender, trying to be as friendly-sounding as possible. “I am a stranger in this town. Would you be so kind as to provide me with sustenance to help me on my journey back home? And, er, perhaps also an explanation as to…where this place is, exactly?”

The entire tavern is staring at you. One alien in the back, who has hair very close in color to your dyed streaks, upon seeing you picks up his mug and pours it onto his face before passing out on the floor.

“Er…please,” you add awkwardly.

The bartender narrows his bright blue eyes. Odd that someone of his blood color would be working in such an establishment. Unless…blood color in this species had nothing to do with caste? Or perhaps that eye color was completely unrelated to blood color? You’re baffled. But you keep staring forward, a polite smile on your face, acting like you don’t notice that your horns scrape the ceiling.

“What be thou, boy?” finally snaps the bartender in a barely discernable accent. “Ye be a god…or a devil?”

You don’t know what to say to that. “…Yes.”

The tavern is still silent. These sure are interesting creatures.

“I have currency,” you try again, and hold up the pouch you’d found earlier.

The bartender merely stares for a few more seconds before blinking and giving a shoulder shrug. “Fine. Gwendolyn! Give here this fine spirit respects, from my great house. Thou’st be in the Saint’s luck, spirit.” — with a strange gesture towards you.

You’re not sure what that means. “Er…thanks.”

Gwendolyn, a woman with captivating golden hair, gives you the keg. You take a tentative sip. It’s disgusting and burns your throat.

So you take a huge swig instead — you get the bad feeling you’re gonna need it.


End file.
